


(i want you) for worse or for better

by dollsome



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 10:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20599121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: Soon after the events of "Fall," Rory pays Paris an impromptu visit.





	(i want you) for worse or for better

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Rory/Paris + 'You deserve so much better'" from improfem on Tumblr.
> 
> This tale is brought to you by my everlasting sense of “Oh my God, but what happened to Paris after ‘Spring’ in the revival?!?!??! WHY WOULD YOU LEAVE ME IN PARIS GELLER LIMBO LIKE THIS, PALLADINOS????".

It’s raining when Rory shows up on Paris’s doorstep. Really raining. Noah’s Ark raining. _ I love you _in a romcom raining.

She has a key in her purse, but she doesn’t use it. It feels more right like this, for some reason: waiting here to see if she deserves to be let in.

Paris is the one to open the door. She’s rocking an annoyed expression and pulling a beige cardigan closer around herself.

“You deserve better,” Rory says as she shivers from the cold. And the wet. It’s seriously wet out here. Her hair is already soaking, and she’s only been out of the car for a minute.

“I thought you were pizza,” says Paris.

“I’m not,” Rory apologizes. Then comprehension hits. “Hey. I thought you were trying to stay away from dairy.”

“I told you.” Paris folds her arms. “I kicked that allergy’s ass years ago.”

“Then why do you always get so stuffed up when you have ice cream? It’s okay to admit you have one mortal weakness, Paris.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever develop one. Don’t hold your breath.”

Rory flashes her sternest stare.

“It’s goat cheese on the pizza,” Paris relents. “I can tolerate that.”

“Well, good,” Rory says lamely.

“And no,” Paris adds, sullenness sneaking into her tone and posture, “I don’t need to hear your reaction to the fact that when Doyle has the kids and I’m here alone, my nighttime plans involve eating an entire goat cheese and caramelized onion pizza by myself and shouting at old episodes of Great British Bake-Off.” 

“Gotcha,” Rory says. “But for the record, my reaction is that that sounds like pretty much the perfect evening. I love me some caramelized onions.”

Paris stares at Rory for a second like Rory’s a math problem she can’t solve (that is, if such a monster exists). Then she takes a step out into the wild night. “What the hell are you doing here?”

It’s a good question. Rory doesn’t know quite what filled her with the irresistible urge to leave Stars Hollow on a whim and not stop until she hit New York, specifically the front door of Paris’s brownstone. She hasn’t pulled a stunt like that since eleventh grade. But when that kind of feeling strikes, the only thing you can do is follow it.

Besides, Mom and Luke are off honeymooning, and it felt like she might go insane at home with only Paul Anka and a million panicked feelings for company. To distract herself, she’d started scrolling through old texts and emails, and a lot of them had been from Paris.

Paris isn’t a sufferer of ‘Should I send this person ten texts in a row?’ anxiety. Her written correspondence to Rory is endless, almost as vivid as her voice, a festival of raging all-caps and the occasional perfectly placed Tyra Banks gif, and Rory found herself laughing out loud reading through them all, provoking mild ‘What’s going on?’ looks from poor Paul Anka. It was easy to forget, just for a little while, that her life was crumbling in on her. She was a kid again, staggered by how much she likes this person despite all the logical arguments as to why she shouldn’t.

And suddenly, she just really wanted to see Paris.

So she dropped Paul Anka off at Babette and Morey’s and took off in the Jeep, and hours later, daylight gone, here she is. She’s lucky Paris is home at all. If Paul’s recent breakup text proved anything, it’s that Rory doesn’t really deserve to have anybody waiting for her right now.

“I’ve been kind of self-centered lately,” Rory begins. Her voice sounds tremulous in the rain. “With the moving back to Stars Hollow, and the book-writing, and the ... confusing Logan stuff, and so I was being a terrible friend. I slacked.”

“Logan?” Paris barks, temporarily drowning out the storm. “Huntzberger Logan??”

Rory ignores her. “I know I mostly just sent emojis to all your texts and emails the past few months. And the Stars Hollow postcard was a weak response to that ... weirdly fancy five page letter—”

“Calligraphy skills atrophy just like anything else. And calligraphy’s going to make a comeback when humankind least expects it. But I’ll be ready.”

“Of course you will,” Rory says, meaning it. “The point is, I haven’t been there enough for you for most of this year. But I just read everything you’ve sent me – _ really _read it, close-read it, Mr. Medina would have been proud. It was a regular Master Class in What Paris Has Been Up To in the Back Half of 2016. And now that I’ve done it, I just have to say: you deserve better.”

“Than what?” Paris asks, tentative. Then, to save face: “Lunatic.”

“You deserve better than beating yourself up all the time, Paris. And you deserve better than all these stupid fights with Doyle, who has clearly forgotten how to appreciate you the way you should be appreciated, and better than twenty flights of stairs you hate, and better than thinking you’re a bad mom just because you have a bad mom. Because you’re _ not. _A bad mom wouldn’t have recounted to me the entire saga of Gabriela’s feud with the lunch lady. I’m glad that worked itself out, by the way.”

“Thanks. It got rough.”

“And Dynasty Makers isn’t a failure just because NPH and his husband--”

“David.”

“--NPH and _ David _aren’t ready for more babies yet. You’re still doing great work with a bunch of incredible clients.”

“Elizabeth Banks _ has _been poking around. And as far as sequels go, Pitch Perfect 2 wasn’t so barf-inducingly terrible.”

“Exactly! And also, you don’t need subtle nips and tucks! I mean, if you want to nip and tuck, and that’s your sincere, non-patriarchal-beauty-standards-induced choice, I’m not going to stop you -- but come on, you look incredible just the way you are.”

“That’s from the subtle nips and tucks.”

“No it’s not!” Rory steps forward and puts her hands on Paris’s shoulders. Sometimes it’s the only way to get the girl to listen. “It’s you. You’re terrifying -- not to look at, obviously, although the super intimidating yet sexy haircut would make Claire Underwood weep with envy.”

“That _ is _ what I was going for.”

“The point is, you’re amazing, and you deserve better than thinking you’re never doing enough and ... and feeling like an invisible girl. No one is less invisible than you, and I’m sorry if I’ve been treating you like you are just because I’m swept up in all of my own stupid stuff. You deserve so much better than the friend that I’ve been lately. So that’s it. That’s all. I just wanted to say that. And I love you, and I hope you’re having a nice night, and ... bye.”

Rory knows Paris’s stance on impromptu house guests. She’s not sure that the ‘any time you’re in town’ rule should apply to her tonight.

So she turns and walks down the steps, then down the sidewalk, watching raindrops dance in the puddles on the pavement. With each step, she waits for Paris’s voice.

Five steps and it comes.

“Boggle?”

Rory turns. “You have Boggle?”

Paris huffs a little too affectedly. “Of course I have Boggle, Rory. What do you think I am?”

Rory takes a few careful steps toward her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve Boggled.”

“And you need a good Boggling,” Paris retorts. “Believe me, it shows.”

Rory can’t help laughing a little even as she rolls her eyes. “You’re such a freak.”

Paris softens a little at the laughter. “But not invisible,” she tests.

“No,” says Rory. “Definitely not invisible.”

Paris smiles, one of those little sweet smiles that always feels to Rory like new books and fresh coffee and puppies and the first hint of autumn in the air. She holds the door open, and Rory skips up the steps to accept the invitation.

“I’m glad you showed up,” Paris says as they step inside together, the warmth and the light like a hug.

“Yeah?” Rory says, smiling.

Backing away from emotions-ville, Paris adds casually, “I was really bored tonight.”

Rory mimics her tone. “Oh yeah. Me too.”

“I’m gonna go get Boggle,” Paris says as Rory kicks off her shoes and they head to the living room. “And a towel for your hair. You look like Kirsten Dunst post-makeouts with Spiderman. And hey, maybe after Boggle I can--”

“You are not teaching me Settlers of Catan, Paris,” Rory interjects firmly.

“Why not??”

“Because I haven’t given up on life that much just yet.”

“You know that the only person your anti-advanced-tabletop-games attitude is hurting is yourself. Your unwillingness to hone your strategizing skills has always been your downfall.”

“Get the Boggle, please.”

Paris sighs, but obliges.

While she’s gone, Rory settles into an armchair. A copy of _ Hidden Figures _ sits on the coffeetable. Rory picks it up and flips through it a little bit -- she’s been meaning to read this one -- and discovers the Stars Hollow postcard tucked into it, a makeshift bookmark. She smiles. In the corner, the TV is paused on Paul Hollywood staring, impossibly blue-eyed and disdainful, at some cupcakes. Even though the house is meticulously clean, there are little hints of the kids around: a basket of toys in the corner, one of Gabriela’s tiny sweaters hanging over the back of a chair, a well-worn edition of _My Father's Dragon_ on the coffeetable, an abandoned blue crayon underneath the sofa.

Usually this house’s whole aesthetic is a little Emily Gilmore for Rory’s tastes (candlesticks? Really, Paris?). But even without Doyle, it still has that _ home _glow.

Panic starts rising again. No home, no plan, no baby-daddy in the picture; talk about no strategizing skills; maybe it is time to embrace the Catan life--

“Something is up with you.” She looks over to find Paris watching her keenly from the other side of the room, Boggle box and towel in hand. “I can tell. What is it? Is it Huntzberger?”

The temptation to let the truth spill out is overwhelming. Paris doesn’t have the answer to every problem, but she has the ability to rant passionately and endlessly about every problem, and right now, that sounds like comfort enough.

But not right now. It’s still Paris time. And frankly, Rory can’t think of a better way for her time to be spent.

“How about I’ll tell you,” Rory says, “if you beat me at Boggle?”

Paris’s face lights up with that familiar blazing, vaguely feral joy that always accompanies finding a worthy competitor. She crosses the room like she’s ready to yell out _ En garde!_, or maybe start a dance-off, hurling the towel at Rory. “You’re on, Gilmore.”

“Bring it.” Rory slings the towel over her shoulders and does a little imitation of a boxer stepping into the ring, a few quick jabs to the air. Looking at Paris, she feels suddenly, reassuringly ready for a fight.

**Author's Note:**

> I realized upon having written all of this that it is basically just the chain of events in “How You Get The Girl” by Taylor Swift. You’re welcome, world? (It at least really helped in the easy-title-selection department.)


End file.
